


All Your Fault

by Seakays



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A teeny bit of angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21698722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seakays/pseuds/Seakays
Summary: The road to Hell is paved with Good intentions. Ron Weasley realizes this when he tries to get his two best friends to acknowledge their feelings towards each other.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 23
Kudos: 47
Collections: Harmony Advent Collection 2019





	All Your Fault

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods at Harmony and Co. For both the collection and for all their help. They are kind and helpful!
> 
> Thank you to weaverofdreams45 for the beta, and for creating my very first mood board ever. It's spectacular just like she is. Shoutout to J A Belanger for giving this a read ahead of posting!
> 
> I own nothing of the Harry Potter franchise. They are Jk Rowling’s . I am jus having some fun with them
> 
> This is a rework of something I wrote many years ago, it's been awesome to revisit this.
> 
> All canon characters, plots, dialogue and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.

It was all Ron Weasley’s fault. All of it. Every last bit of frustration, and humiliation that she was currently suffering could be related right back to Ronald Bilius Weasley, the bloody redhead who interfered.  
  
Oh, perfect, Hermione thought, not only am I talking to a bottle of butterbeer, I can’t even curse with any bloody panache. That was two bloody’s in the space of two seconds, wasn’t it?  
Nope, three, Hermi – that annoying, pesky, little voice in her head lilted at her. Lowering her head to the top of her bottle of butterbeer, Hermione wondered just when that niggling voice in her head had begun to sound so very much like Ron Weasley.  
  
“Are ya daft, lass? Ya don’t wanna be rubbing your head too soundly on that bottle. Merlin knows what kind a mark It might leave on your forehead.”  
  
Hermione slowly raised her head and locked eyes on a mountain of a man. The bartender of this particular establishment was huge; at least six-foot, seven and probably hovering close to 28 stone, all of this mass was topped with a wild shock of red hair upon which sat a red and white striped Santa hat. Both his size and his brogue reminded Hermione forcibly of Hagrid, and she was horrified to find her eyes filling with tears.   
  
So too was the bartender whose nametag proclaimed his as Abernathy. “Merciful heavens, lass………..you don’t wanna be crying now, do ya? You just go right ahead and pummel that bottle with your head, and I’ll shut right up about it. I don’t wanna be interfering, but a bonny lass like you, drinking all alone, it just ain’t right.”  
  
This huge man seemed so ruffled by her tears, that Hermione really had no choice by to try and reassure him that she was all right, and wouldn’t be weeping her heart out on his barstool in the immediate future.  
  
“I’m really fine………..hmmm……….Mr. Abernathy. You just look like someone I once knew very well. He was one of the finest men who ever lived. He died in the war, and I miss him very much.”  
  
“So that’s why you’re here, pretty miss? In remembrance of a fallen comrade. I’ll have a drink with ya. It’s always hardest during the holidays.” He yanked a shot glass from underneath the bar, and proceeded to fill it with something that was striped festively like a candy cane.  
  
Waving her hand in refusal at his offer of her own shot, Hermione extended her hand and introduced herself, “Hermione Granger.”  
  
“No? ….. As I live and breathe…..THE Hermione Granger.” The shock seemed more than poor Abernathy could bear, and he yanked a barstool over, sat down and shakily raised his glass to her.  
  
“To you, The Heroine of Hogwarts, may your days be plenty and full, and may I wish you a very Happy Christmas. Cheers.” Embarrassed by his obvious shock, Hermione raised her glass and drank deeply from her bottle, hoping to shift away some of the interest from the other patrons that had occurred since Abernathy had so loudly announced her name.  
  
“The Knut and Kneazle is honoured by your presence, Miss Hermione.”  
  
Inwardly a little chuffed by his response, Hermione felt her spirits begin to rise, until IT happened, just like it always did. Abernathy imperceptibly looked over her shoulder searching for them . . . the bloody, sodding Heroes of Hogwarts. Bloody Hell.  
  
I see its back to the “bloody’s” again, Hermi…..and with that leather bound thesaurus nesting in your head, for shame.  
  
Voice-in-the-head Ron had rather an overdeveloped sense of sarcasm and without knowing she was actually doing it, she muttered, “Ron, Bloody, Weasley.”  
  
If she had been somewhat surprised by his look of shock at finding Hermione sitting at his bar, Abernathy’s look of total childish delight at hearing Ron’s name astonished her.  
  
“Ron Weasley….coming here…..to my bar…..Merlin’s beard.” As she watched him shakily reach for another shot of the candy cane concoction, Hermione was about to respond when he said the other name. The real ‘He Who Should not be Named.”  
  
“And Harry Potter……would he be coming too?”  
  
In hindsight, Hermione was never quite certain what exactly caused her to go off her nut at that precise moment. It could have been the mention of his name. It could have been the fact that no matter where she went, people always looked over her shoulder for Harry and Ron, as if they were somehow joined together with some exceptionally elastic string, forever bound, and forever tied. It could have been that it was the 23rd of December, and the prospect of spending another Christmas so aggressively single was almost too pathetic to comprehend. But the most likely reason of all was the fact that the bottle of butterbeer she had been so intent on stamping into her forehead was most certainly not her first.  
  
So, more than a little tipsy, full of sad memories, maudlin about the holidays, and not wanting to remember the humiliating little scene she had apparated out of three hours earlier, twenty two year old Hermione Granger, the Heroine of Hogwarts, and future Doctor of Pediatric Wizardry, threw her bottle of butterbeer across the bar, shouted a rather emphatic, “Bloody Hell”, and promptly burst into loud and messy tears.  
  
_____________________________________________________  
  
3 and ½ Hours Earlier  
  
Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were celebrating at his flat. In addition to celebrating the holiday season, Hermione had just found out that she had been accepted into the Hippocrates’ School of Pediatric Wizardry in Stonehenge, and Ron had finally made reserve Keeper for his beloved Chudley Cannons.   
  
On their fourth butterbeer, with their hunger satisfied by an eight slice Hawaiian pizza, they found themselves pleasingly numb. There was, however, one very large fly in the potion. One of their celebrators was late. Very late. So late in fact that both his absence and lack of owl was greatly risking the festive mood of the future Doctor Granger.  
  
“He’s too busy shagging that tarty little witch from Leeds to have time for his oldest and dearest friends, isn’t he, Ron?”  
  
Hermione had tried very hard to keep any signs of malice from her tone, but her attempt was definitely not good enough to fool one of her best friends. Sighing deeply, Ron prepared himself for another night ruined by Hermione alternatively waxing poetic about Harry or plotting rather inventive and creative ways to sabotage his dates.   
  
Now even though Ronald Weasley was famous, athletic, and a brilliant chess player, he really did not possess any more emotional depth than the average man. But, if there was one thing he understood over the past eleven years, it was that his two best friends were made for each other. Although their denials were loud, unanimous, and sometimes voiced in print, he knew better.  
  
They had been dancing around each other for so long, and did it so well, that Ron was certain if relationship avoidance had been an Olympic sport, Harry and Hermione would have been the undisputed gold medal winners.  
  
Ron had put up with the longing looks, the little flirtations, the not so accidental touching for long enough; he had reached the end of his proverbial rope. He was not going to listen to one more night filled with Harry describing his current witch, who was always, without exception, tiny, blonde and busty. Add in large blue eyes, and a substandard IQ, and you had his type in one. Ron called them all, the Anti-Hermiones. Did Harry actually think he was fooling anyone?  
  
Hermione was no better – her taste in wizards was either appalling or non-existent. When she did choose to date – and she had literally dozens of offers daily – they were almost always tall slender men with dark hair. Ron never learned their names, just referred to them as the Substitute Harrys.  
  
Ron had been planning on confronting his two obtuse best friends for months now, but had always held himself back, hoping against hope that they would finally see the light on their own. But it was Christmas, and it hadn’t happened yet, and Ron was becoming increasingly convinced that if left to their own devices it never would, leaving him to be Agony Auntie Ron for the rest of his natural existence. Considering wizarding kind’s tendencies to rather long life spans, it was quite understandably bleak imagining his future.  
  
It really was just a twist of fate when Ron Weasley had come to the end of his patience, he had a pleasantly “relaxed” Hermione Granger celebrating in his living room. It could have just as easily been Harry, but this particular night, it was Hermione that found herself withering under the intense stare of bright blue eyes, and a sneaky strategist who cut through all the crap directly to the root of the problem.  
  
Through all of Ron’s musings, Hermione had been rattling on about her hatred of all things blond, but instead of nodding his head in sympathy as he felt he had done for YEARS, he cut her off at the knees.   
  
“You want to be the one he’s shagging, don’t you, Hermione?” Ron had a brief moment of sympathy for his brunette friend as her mouth gaped open and shut like a trout, but he knew he had to continue for the greater good.  
  
“W….Wh….What did you say?” Funny, Ron mused to himself, I do believe that is the very first time I have ever heard Hermione stutter.  
  
“You heard me, Denial-Girl.”  
  
“You actually believe that I fancy Harry? Oh, Ron, you have had one too many butterbeers.”  
  
“Oh I know you fancy him. What I said was – you want to shag him.”  
  
“I most certainly do not.”  
  
“Do too.”  
  
“Do…..Oh, for Medusa’s sake, we are not three years old, Ron. I do love Harry. Very much in fact…” Hermione had stopped at this point, but Ron could see her mind was still wrapping itself around something, so employing an old chess strategy, he wisely sat back and said nothing.  
  
Moments later, he was both rewarded and chagrined when first she tried to continue, then looked him directly in the eye, with her own chocolate brown ones filled with such sadness that he felt his heart clench in time.  
  
“It doesn’t really matter what I feel, though, does it? I am light years away from Harry’s type. My brains are too big, and my chest is too small.”  
  
“Hermione, come here.” Ron held his arms out to her. “You know Harry thinks you are beautiful. So do I.” Cuddled in the safety of his arms, and talking resolutely to his shoulder, Ron sensed her relax a bit.  
  
She snorted. “Oh yes, he thinks I am a right Goddess. What were his exact words at Ginny and Dean’s wedding – those brilliant compliments – “Wow, Hermione, that’s an interesting choice for robes.” Even Ron had to chuckle. “Okay I’ll give you that one. But I know he thinks you are stunning.”  
  
Hermione had gotten up out of Ron’s embrace, and swaying slightly, made her way into the kitchen to grab them yet another butterbeer. Head stuck deep in the refrigerator, moving moldy cheese, and day-old buns out of the way, she never did hear the telltale noise from the floo that announced the late arrival of a certain raven haired wizard.   
  
She certainly never heard Harry’s almost shouted greetings, and she never knew Ron had quickly shoved a finger to his lips and shushed him, and with rapid hand movements, made it clear that Harry needed to make himself scarce. Thinking that Ron had the company of some new witch to keep him occupied this cold December evening, Harry moved quickly into the dining room off to the left side of the living area, both amused and anxious to learn the identity of the latest witch to catch Ron’s eye.  
  
He was surprised to see Hermione rounding the corner of the kitchen, two butterbeers trailing behind her. Giggling softly, she sighed, “sometimes I am still such a Muggle, I could have summoned them.”  
  
Smiling at the sight of Hermione so tipsy, Harry shoved off his cloak, and went to make his apologies when her next words hit his ear, and upon registering in his brain, rendered him completely immobile.  
  
“You’re right, Ron. I do want to shag Harry. Every day. Twice on Sundays. And I hate that I want to.”  
  
She plopped onto the sofa next to Ron, and clinking her bottle to his, drank deeply.  
  
“Hermione, why? Why do you hate that you want to?”  
  
“Because for the first time in my life, I want something that I know I can’t have. I want birthdays and Christmases. I want todays and tomorrows. Sunrises, sunsets, and white picket bloody fences. I want it ALL, Ron. With him. With Harry Potter. And the REALLY sad thing is that I’m smart enough to know that I can never have it. At least not with Harry. And the even more pathetic thing is when I try and think of my future with someone else, ANYONE else – and believe me, I have tried – I just can’t do it. He’s always there. Being wonderful and gorgeous and sexy and so much my heart’s desire that I ache. I ache when he hugs you and I exactly the same way. I ache when he introduces me to people as his best bud. I ache each and every time I know he’s with another witch who is holding him, touching him and who knows just what shade of green his eyes are without his glasses in the morning after.”  
  
Watching the tears well up in her eyes and spill over, Ron was seized by the immediate knowledge that his little plan might not work out exactly as he had anticipated. While he was thrilled that Hermione had finally spilled out her feelings about Harry, he knew, without question, that there was not a word in all the dictionaries in all the worlds, either wizarding or Muggle that would accurately describe her anger should she realize that Harry had been listening to every word she had just spoken.  
  
Saying a silent prayer to each and every deity that he could think of, Ron tried to encourage Hermione to leave so that he could have a quiet yet firm conversation with one Boy Who Lived. Ron would later realize that perhaps he needed to spend a little more time in church, because just as he was helping a slow moving Hermione on with her cloak, a tawny brown barn owl arrived at Ron’s window.  
  
“Oh look, Ron, its Hecate, Arthur’s Ministry Owl.” Hermione, moving with an alarming speed that belied her level of intoxication, grasped the parchment Hecate was carrying and with a small pat, and a quick owl treat, had sent him on his way.  
  
“That’s strange, it’s addressed to Harry. Harry isn’t here. Ministry Owls never make that kind of mis….” Ron swore that he could actually see the light come on in Hermione’s head as he watched her eyes fill with fear, anger and some other emotion that Ron couldn’t even come close to naming.  
  
“You bloody, sodding great idiot. He’s here, isn’t he, Ron? Listening in as the poor, drunk little girl sobs her heart out all over him. Did you two think this was actually funny? Did it amuse you to see the know-it-all, ugly bookworm spout all kinds of stupid nonsense about love and want? Are you happy now, Harry? Aren’t you just thrilled to pieces that I love you? Are you sickened by the thought or just embarrassed? Where the hell are you, Potter?”  
  
As Harry slowly emerged from the dining room, two things astonished Ron. The level of hurt reflected on Hermione’s face and the level of anguish he saw on Harry’s. Three things then happened simultaneously: Harry began to move towards Hermione, she apparated out of his flat, and Ron sat down on his couch, wondering exactly how many layers of good intentions he had just paved on the road to Hell.  
  
_______________________________  
  
  
Present Time – The Knut and Kneazle  
  
“So, my dear Abernathy, that is why you will never, ever see Hermione Granger in the presence of either that interfering prat, Ron Weasley, or that thick-headed bastard, Harry Potter.  
  
And with somewhat of a weakened flourish, Hermione finished telling her tale of woe to Abernathy and the assorted kitchen staff of the Knut and Kneazle. Mercifully, once Hermione had burst into loud and noisy sobs, Abernathy had very wisely picked her up off the barstool, and brought her into the kitchen away from the holiday crowd that had been listening with knowing smiles and prying eyes. Once inside, he had patted her hand, and it reminded her so much of Hagrid, her dear, dear friend, that Hermione felt comfortable telling him the story of her complete and utter humiliation.  
  
Now that she had, she felt an almost cathartic calm wash over her, and she realized that she needed to get home to her flat, and somehow move on with her life, a life without her two best friends. That thought alone was enough to bring a fresh set of tears to her eyes, and not wanting to fall apart again in front of a crowd of weary holiday shoppers, she reached around for her purse to pay her bill.  
  
The purse that she had left in Ron’s flat along with her cloak, her letter of acceptance to Hippocrates, and her pride.   
  
Bloody, bloody hell.  
  
Almost set to send out invitations to her personal pity party, Hermione suddenly heard commotion outside the kitchen.  
  
“I know she’s in there, I traced her apparition signature to this bar, Sir.” Hearing Abernathy mumble something, Hermione almost smiled when she head the exasperation that laced through Harry’s voice.   
  
“What the bloody hell do you mean I can’t see her? Until I do what? Tell her what? Who exactly to you think you are?  
  
Knowing that Harry’s temper could be short at the best of times, Hermione gathered every molecule of her haughty head girl persona and sauntered out of the kitchen. Laying her hand somewhere near Abernathy’s shoulder, she commented.  
  
“Thank you for your kindness, Abernathy, to a silly witch in desperate need at Christmas. If you don’t mind, I’ll settle up my bill tomorrow when I have retrieved my purse.” Turning blazing eyes on Harry, she continued. “There. You’ve seen me. Now leave. You aren’t welcome anywhere near me.”  
  
Harry was faster than Hermione gave him credit for, and he grabbed her arm as she tried to storm past, moving her over to the far corner of the bar.   
  
“Hermione, it wasn’t my fault. I thought Ron had brought home a new girl, and I just wanted to see who it was. I’m so sorry that I overheard what you said.”  
  
“You’re sorry.” It was said flatly, without emotion, but Hermione actually felt her heart shatter. Struggling to breathe, she tried again to move past Harry. She had to get home before she flew apart completely, a point she knew she was rapidly approaching.  
  
Looking just as desperate as she did, Harry stopped her again, tilted her face, and finally spoke. “Yes, I’m sorry. Sorry to hear you tell another man that you love me. Sorry to hear the tears in your voice as you said it. Sorry to have never told you that I love you. God, Hermione, I never wanted to be the cause of your unhappy tears. I just never thought that you could possibly love me back the same way.” He paused to catch his breath. “I love you, always, forever, with everything I have and everything I am. And the first time I heard those words, I just really wanted them to be for my ears only…..I’m just so sorry.”  
  
“Wh….wh….what did you say?” And for the second time in under five hours, Hermione Granger was rendered not quite speechless, but stuttering liberally.  
  
Unable to keep the grin off his face or his arms from holding her a minute longer, Harry yanked her into his arms. “I, Harry Potter, am ridiculously in love with you, Hermione Granger. I want to see sunsets and sunrises with you. I want to see you every single Christmas morning helping our children unwrap all your carefully wrapped presents. I want to share everything with you, and while I am not sure exactly what exact colour green my eyes are in the morning, you are the only witch I would want to know that information.  
  
So intent was Harry on ensuring that Hermione understood exactly his depth of emotion for her, he failed to realize the scene they were creating. As their lips touched in passion and in truth for the very first time, Harry was sure he felt the earth move and whistling in his ears. Even though the kiss was indeed passionate, Harry and Hermione would later realize that it wasn’t their kiss that made the earth move, but the stomping, clapping and whistling from all the patrons of the bar.  
  
Not that it ever really mattered to them. For when they told their two children, Ainsley and Aiden, the story of how they finally got together, the earth always moved, and Santa himself whistled his blessing in their ear.   
  
It was indeed Ron Weasley’s fault. All of it. The sunrises and the sunsets, the birthdays and the Christmases, and the fact that Hermione Potter knew that her husband’s eyes were the exact colour of the lovely Irish moss that grew in Derrycarne Wood.  



End file.
